


more berries (and that summer feelin')

by hipsterchrist



Series: redemption arc [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, The Great British Bake Off RPF
Genre: Baking, Children, Competition, F/M, Family, Family Fluff, Friendship, Inspired by The Great British Bake Off, Post-Second War with Voldemort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-29
Updated: 2019-12-29
Packaged: 2021-02-25 01:14:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22007551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hipsterchrist/pseuds/hipsterchrist
Summary: They've both had a little too much to drink, obviously.Obviously.Otherwise she would absolutely not be so much as entertaining the idea."They'd never pick me!" Calliope insists as Blaise drums his fingers on the top of her head."You won't know that for certain unless you try."Or, the completely unnecessary, totally self-indulgent Calliope-on-GBBO fic.
Relationships: Blaise Zabini/Original Female Character(s)
Series: redemption arc [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1584157
Comments: 8
Kudos: 83





	more berries (and that summer feelin')

**Author's Note:**

> Call it a coda to my Draco/George epic, two years after the fact. This happened because I binged Great British Bake Off repeatedly this year, which I did because, well. 2019. A couple people were interested in more about Blaise and Calliope, so here's a bit of their future.
> 
> This fic takes place between January and August 2016. Marriages have been established and children have been had. If you wish to fully understand what's going on here, you will absolutely have to read the Draco/George epic (soz!), but if you're just looking for a light read where you don't need to comprehend anything deeper than the words on the screen, you'll probably do alright. 
> 
> Title from "Watermelon Sugar" by Harry Styles. 
> 
> Choose your own result.
> 
> And, look. Listen. A child named Scorpius has to exist in this universe, too, because a child named Scorpius has to exist in every Harry Potter-related universe. In this one, he's just not a child belonging to Draco.

They've both had a little too much to drink, obviously. _Obviously._ Otherwise she would absolutely not be so much as entertaining the idea.

"They'd never pick me!" Calliope insists as Blaise drums his fingers on the top of her head.

"You won't know that for certain unless you try," he says, his typical measured steadiness wavering just slightly with his slow speech. Blaise never slurs, drunk; he simply slows. It would be more annoying if Calliope was more sober.

"The application alone is eight pages! It’s such a waste of time when they’re not even going to _pick me_ ," she says, clutching the application in question in her hand. It's all supposed to be online, a piece by piece, finish-this-part-and-then-the-next, save-your-progress-and-return-later sort of thing that Calliope hates, but Blaise managed to get her a hard copy of it in full not five minutes ago with a careful wave of his wand at the laptop and printer that they both tend to avoid. 

She's not sure how he did it. She's never sure. Magic and Muggle technology are not supposed to mingle, as she understands it, but Blaise is nothing if not dedicated to her.

“I’ll help you fill it out,” he says, sitting down in the chair next to hers and swaying just a little as he does. He takes the papers from Calliope’s hand and conjures a ballpoint pen from nowhere. “My penmanship is better than yours anyway.”

“Very rude,” Calliope says in a drawling impression of Draco so spot on that it startles Blaise into looking up at her with widened eyes.

“You terrify me, darling,” he mutters, a smile creeping onto his face. He clicks the pen a few times before setting ink to paper and writing her full name on the _Great British Bake Off_ application. “Now, let’s get this done, shall we?”

\---

Two long telephone interviews, three day trips to London for audition rounds, and one psychological evaluation later, a small production crew of Muggles is wandering the Zabini home, setting up lights and cameras. Blaise sits at the small table in the garden with Draco and George, all three of them sipping tea from gaudy mugs emblazoned with Disney princesses and watching through the glass door as Calliope is tended to by a stylist and a petite woman holding up a large, fuzzy microphone. 

“Looks a bit mad, doesn’t it?” George says. “You sure you don’t want us to take the kids back to ours? They’ll be right next door if they’re needed.” Blaise shakes his head and begins slowly spinning his mug round and round, the one nervous habit he’s never been able to fully shake.

“The crew want them here for _colour_ or something,” he says in a low voice. “I’ve already warned them. Haven’t I, Scorpius?”

“Best behavior. No hints of magic,” his ten-year-old son says from across the table. He looks up from his book with a dubious expression on his face. “I’m not the one you need to worry about, though, Dad,” he adds, jerking his head toward the other side of the garden, where three six-year-olds - one with significantly darker skin than the others - are playing some sort of American game with Chocolate Frog cards. Blaise sighs and gives a little twitch of his fingers, murmuring something, and the cards in the children’s hands suddenly become Legos.

“Oi!” his daughter protests. She gives him a feeble little glare. 

“‘Oi’?” he teases. “You’re going to be barred from seeing your friends there if you keep talking like that.”

“Oi,” says George and the other two kids in the grass. Blaise looks at Draco, who, mid-sip, arches one eyebrow over the top of his yellow mug, purposefully keeping the words _It’s hard to be a BEAUTY when mornings are a BEAST_ visible when he sets it down.

“Look what happens to your children’s speech patterns when you marry commoners,” Blaise says. Draco rolls his eyes and kicks him hard in the shin as a cheerful, balding man pokes his head out from the house.

“We’ll be recording a quick interview with you momentarily, Mr. Zabini,” he says, “and the children, too, if--” A look of confusion comes over his face as he glances toward the kids.

“The pale ones aren’t mine,” Blaise says dryly.

“What? Oh, no,” the man says, shaking his head. “I could’ve sworn they were playing with cards five minutes ago. No matter! And your friends are welcome to stay for an interview as well, of course. We want to show how loved Calliope is, that she’s got people rooting for her.”

“Well, in that case, we can invite about two dozen more right now,” Draco says. The man smiles.

“Oh, your viewing parties are going to be delightfully crowded,” he says happily. “We _love_ that.”

\---

What they don’t show on the telly, Calliope is shocked to discover, is how _small_ the tent is. She'd always been under the impression that it was quite roomy, even in the first week's competition with all twelve contestants packed in there, but she'd never considered the camera operators, the lights, the big microphones. Even Mel and Sue, slight as they are, are taking up space that feels suddenly of extremely high value.

"You're looking a bit nervous, Calliope. I have to say, I _love_ your name," Mel says to her in a soothing stage whisper. There's a camera on the other side of her baking station and a boom mic being held up above her, but Mel's hand comes to rest on Calliope's shoulder in a gesture so comforting it could make her cry.

"I am a bit, but thank you," she says.

"Are you Greek? Your surname doesn't--"

"My husband's father was Italian," Calliope explains. "Both sets of my grandparents came from Greece."

"Oh, you must've grown up in kitchens then!" Mel says. Calliope hesitates. 

Truth be told, there was no real love lost between her and her family, by the time they drew the line in the sand at her bringing home a boyfriend with skin like midnight. She'd had no reservations whatsoever about kicking said sand in their faces and going home with Blaise alone. But when she thinks of the best parts of her childhood, of the foundation of her love for baking, she does think of her granddad - the one who died too soon, who left her the little house in Cokeworth, where she lives now with the man her granddad alone among their family would have loved, where she's raising her own children and teaching them how to make kourabiedes and cannolis the Muggle way.

"At my Papou Ares' knees, yeah," she says with a smile. "He taught me how to bake."

"And what do you think he'd say about your Signature Bake now?" Mel asks. Calliope looks down at her chocolate sponge batter. She's pleased with the consistency, but worried about the flavour, especially after having glanced at the strong profiles of her fellow bakers' cakes.

"I think he'd say it needs oregano, to be honest."

"Oregano?" says Mel in confused surprise. "In a chocolate cake?"

"Yeah," Calliope says, nodding confidently. She watches Mel's expression shift from skeptical to curious.

"I'll be interested to taste that later," she says. "Go on then! Add oregano!"

The next day, she stands on the grass and dials the house, where Blaise promised her he'd be sitting vigil beside the telephone, waiting to hear how her first Showstopper Challenge went. He picks up halfway through the first ring, and when she says, "They're keeping me round for Biscuit Week," he whoops so loudly for her that she has to hold her mobile far from her ear.

\---

"Calliope, I must be honest with you," Andromeda says, her mouth still half-full of biscuit. Blaise grimaces. Beside him, Calliope does the same, bracing herself. "This is the _best_ shortbread I've ever eaten."

Relief washes over Calliope's entire body. Blaise can't hold back a small smile. 

"Oh, I'm so happy to hear that," Calliope says. A trio of children run past her, and without missing a beat, she reaches out and snags the back of one's shirt collar. Leaning down and lowering her voice, she says, "What've we agreed on about running round the Burrow’s kitchen table?"

"But Regulus and Freddi do it," Delphi whines. 

"And they're not supposed to either," Andromeda says, looking across the kitchen and lifting a dangerous eyebrow in the direction of Draco and George's son and daughter. Though obviously fraternal, the twins wear matching expressions of feigned innocence. Blaise still hasn't determined for certain which father passed that down to them.

"Running round this very sharp-cornered table again, were you?" George says, suddenly appearing in the doorway and looking none too pleased. "The last thing your developing brains need is a head injury."

"And one of these days we really need to have a talk about misbehaving without getting caught," says Draco, slipping in past George, frowning. Blaise contains a burst of laughter threatening to escape his mouth with a firmly-set smirk. "It's your birthright as Malfoys - _and_ as George Weasley’s children - to get away with things. Breaking rules right where adults can see you?" He _tsk_ s and shakes his head before turning to Calliope. 

"Is there a reason you chose heather and not something like--I don't know--cardamom or cinnamon or, like, rosemary or basil?"

"Well, cinnamon's hardly adventurous," Calliope says with a vague, fleeting roll of her eyes. "And I've a feeling several people might do something with cardamom or rosemary, and I'm saving basil for botanicals week - assuming I even get there." She releases her hold on their daughter's shirt and crosses her fingers while sliding the fingertips of her other hand over her cross necklace. 

"You'll _get_ there," Blaise assures her, and even though this is only the second week of the competition and the botanicals round is a month from now, he means it with complete sincerity. 

"Anyway," Calliope says, waving her hand in anxious dismissiveness, "last week I leaned rather heavily on my Greek heritage. I thought I'd go the other way this time. What's more Celtic than heather and whisky?"

"It's that honey glaze that brings it all together," Andromeda says, not quite delicately shoving another biscuit into her mouth. Blaise has to admire the way her dark lipstick never smudges. She may have lost the manners of the Black house - what even Blaise learned in the corridors and at the tables of the Malfoy Manor during his childhood - but the hereditary vanity remains ever intact. 

"Can I have one, Dad?" Delphi asks, her little hand creeping toward the biscuit tin as she stands on her tiptoes. 

"You probably won't like how it tastes, love," he says, but he looks at Calliope, who meets his eyes and shrugs. The worrisome bit of the whisky's all baked out, and they _are_ trying to get her used to different flavours so she’s less picky when they travel with Draco and George. "But go on, if you really want to try it."

Delphi’s face scrunches up on her first bite, but she takes a second one nonetheless, and after her third, she nods vigorously. 

"Good job, Mum!" she exclaims through a mouthful of shortbread, crumbs tumbling down her shirt, and then Regulus and Freddi are abruptly beside her, reaching for the tin as well.

\---

“You said your husband works in the government, yeah?” says David, flopping down on the sofa next to her. Calliope looks up to see him handing her a cup of tea as the other bakers begin sitting down in the plush chairs and on the second sofa surrounding her, all wearing expressions of varying levels of defeat. It’s Bread Week and the ten of them are covered in flour, despite their aprons, and Calliope notices that there’s still melted chocolate under one of her fingernails as she reaches out to take the mug from David, who’s got a stray streak of cocoa powder across his chin.

“Er, yes, that’s right,” she says, reeling in her frazzled mind. This is always the line to other Muggles, that Blaise works in _the government_. More often than not, no one ever presses beyond that - because, God, who would want to in 2016? - but occasionally--

“What’s he do? My fiancé works in government, too,” David says happily. “In the Foreign and Commonwealth Office. Maybe yours knows him!”

“Oh. It’s very top secret, actually,” Calliope says, which is true. “So secret he doesn’t even tell _me_ anything about it,” she adds, which is not. Blaise tells her everything about his work, in both hushed and casual tones behind their locked bedroom door. She probably knows more about the Department of Mysteries than _anyone_ aside from Unspeakables.

“Ah, MI6,” says Fran knowingly from where she’s doing yoga on the grass. “Makes sense with all your travels.”

“Something like that,” Calliope says, thinking of Harry and Ron and the Auror office that Blaise steadfastly refuses to enter. She downs half of her tea in one go.

“What d’you think the Technical will be?” asks Rana, nervously nibbling a square of dark chocolate leftover from Michael’s bake.

“I shudder to think,” Bim says lowly. Calliope looks over to see her staring into the middle distance, eyes round and terrified. “I truly do.”

“What kind of bread are you making for the Showstopper?” Michael asks the group. “I had a hard time deciding on something that was doable but challenging enough to impress Paul and Mary.”

“Pan dulce,” Calliope answers. “Mexican sweet breads. I’m sculpting the Three Caballeros--well. Not by copyrighted name, of course.”

“Three birds who just happen to play string instruments?” David supplies with a laugh.

“And just happen to be wearing snappy serapes made of conchas? Yes, exactly,” Calliope says, grinning. 

“That sounds like _so_ much work,” says Jakub in a singsong tone. “Paul and Mary will be watching you close.”

“I can literally hear Mary now,” Eloise says, her smile wide and bright.

“‘Calliope is being _terribly_ ambitious,’” says Lorna, their resident impersonator of the judges. Calliope laughs.

“Well, go big or go home, as the wee ones say,” Gordon says. “Any of that dark chocolate left still, Michael?” Michael holds up a block, its wrapping haphazard and sloppy, and Calliope suddenly realizes that she’s starving.

“Eighty-three percent cacao,” he reminds them. “Have at it, mates.” Calliope practically lunges.

\---

Calliope is already crying when Blaise picks up the telephone. The sound of it seizes harshly in his chest.

“Darling, take a deep breath with me,” he says softly, and then breathes loud enough for her to hear, over and over until he can hear her doing it, too. “When you’re ready, talk to me.”

“Both rounds today were utter disasters,” Calliope says after a few more deep breaths. Her voice is shaky still, but her words are at least decipherable. “ _Everything_ went wrong with my crème brûlée. You’ve never seen a crème brûlée go so wrong.” Blaise doubts very much that that is true, but the veracity of the statement is not important in the slightest, not when his wife is so upset. “And the Technical - what a nightmare! Have you ever even _heard_ of a bloody _windtorte_?”

“What the hell is that?” Blaise asks.

“Some Austrian cake from two centuries ago!” exclaims Calliope. “And I scored _abysmally_. Only second from the bottom. They should’ve kicked me out right then and there. I’m getting it tomorrow. I just know it.”

“Nonsense,” Blaise says. “How many episodes have we seen where contestants have a horrible first day and then pull it out on day two? You’ve only got to be good enough to survive, and I _know_ your Showstopper can do it.”

“I suppose,” Calliope says, sniffling. “It is inspired by our little family, after all. I’ve got to make you lot proud.” Blaise smiles.

“Calliope, we’re all already proud of you,” he says. “ _So_ proud. You’ve never seen anyone so proud of someone else as we are of you.”

“Stop it! You’re meant to _stop_ me crying!” Calliope mutters. Blaise smile grows into a grin.

“After you nail it tomorrow,” he says, “see if you can sneak a piece of each tier back with you. We’re all dying for another bit of the baklava cheesecake.”

“Tiramisu cheesecake for me, please,” Scorpius calls from the study upstairs.

“I want the butterbeer one!” Delphi shouts. Blaise sighs.

“ _Accio_ Extendable Ears,” he says wearily. Calliope laughs. The sound frees his heartbeat.

\---

“In today’s Technical, you will be making chicken pastilla,” Sue says gravely. Calliope’s gasp is, thankfully, not heard by her fellow bakers, but she’s sure a camera picked up her facial expression anyway.

Calliope _knows_ chicken pastilla. She ate it every day for two weeks when she and Blaise last traveled to Morocco with Draco and George, years ago now. She tried and failed to charm three unimpressed hijabis and four djellaba-clad men before one mountain restaurant chef with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and his suspicious eyes rimmed with kohl finally gave her his recipe. She’s cooked it herself once every couple of months over the past six years. When she uncovers the equipment and ingredients on her station and begins reading the redacted recipe, she can’t help but feel totally elated.

Still, it won’t do to let on how confident she is right now. She’s seen too many bakers express their comfort and cockiness to the cameras or to Mel and Sue, only to fumble halfway through. There’s a joke to be made there about humble pie, but Calliope has other things to concentrate on, like browning the chicken, blanching the almonds, and looking up every once in awhile to make sure the cameras see her appearing confused and worried.

“And that leaves this one for first place. Whose is this?” Paul asks later. Calliope raises her hand meekly, feeling every bit as though she’s going to jump right off the stool with delight and pride.

“Well done, Calliope,” says Mary. 

“It really is just _completely_ spot on,” Paul says, sounding almost mystified. “You nailed every single aspect of the pastilla. It tastes so authentic. _Really_ , really well done.”

A few minutes later, Calliope stands on the grass outside the tent, holding an umbrella over her head, and smiles a small, wicked smile at a camera.

“I’ve made chicken pastilla about six times a year for the last six years,” she confesses with a tight, impish shrug. “So, yeah, I’m pretty pleased with my number one.”

\---

“Tell me, darling, what does a Star Baker do for a Signature during Pastry Week?” Blaise asks, holding out his fist to her as if presenting a microphone. Calliope snorts.

“They don’t hand off mics like reporters,” she says, laughing. Blaise immediately shifts his stance, arms up now like he’s holding a boom mic. Calliope laughs again as she sets aside the parmesan she’s just grated.

“Well,” she says, facing toward Blaise, “I’ve decided to go savoury.”

“Bold choice for a tart,” Blaise says.

“Who’s that you’re calling a tart?” Calliope asks, eyebrows raised. Blaise snickers and drops the act so he can wrap his arms around Calliope and pull her close. He kisses her flour-dusted cheek.

“Wild garlic?” he says, surveying the ingredients she’s got neatly organized on the worktop. She nods. “Walnuts and feta, too?” She nods again, popping a roasted walnut into her mouth. “Merlin, it smells good,” Blaise says before copying her.

“Don’t eat too many,” she says. “I have to sprinkle them on at the very end after it’s all done baking.”

“Oh my god,” Blaise says. His mouth waters as realization sets in. “Does that mean you’re baking the feta, too?”

“Mmhmm,” hums Calliope, smiling. Blaise tips his head back and groans.

“I’m going to eat the hell out of this tart,” he says, lowering his head again to meet her eyes. She smirks.

“ _Now_ who’s that you’re calling a tart?”

\---

Calliope has been looking forward to Botanicals Week since she first got the list of themes, but not nearly as much as Pansy.

"You'd better bake something with pansies, or we're not friends anymore," she said sternly months ago, loud and clear over the cacophony of the spectators at the Cokeworth children's footie match. On the field, Freddi then kicked the ball to Scorpius, who launched it directly toward the head of one of the little neighborhood girls whose name Calliope was always embarrassed about forgetting. Next to her, Blaise and George and Draco leapt to their feet, frantically reaching for their wands, but the ball's trajectory curved sharply, avoiding a worst case scenario, and Scorpius, dark eyes wide and alarmed, turned to face his parents on the sideline. 

"Oh, that was a close one, wasn't it?" Luna said from the other side of Pansy and their wriggling daughters. "Which one of the kids d’you think did that?"

Needless to say, Calliope was well and truly distracted and never responded to what she knew was an empty threat from Pansy, but that didn't mean she hadn't thought about it later, over and over and over again, dwelling and writing down recipe ideas in a notebook with whatever pen or quill was nearby when inspiration struck. 

They're a rather confusing sort of...family unit, as it were - the Zabinis and Malfoys and Weasleys and Granger-Weasleys and Potters and Longbottom-Lovegood-Parkinsons, all messily connected and intertwined - but they’re scattered with girls with names that grow from the ground. There’s Pansy, of course, and also Lily Potter and Rose Granger-Weasley and Pepper Longbottom-Lovegood and Basil Longbottom-Parkinson. Perhaps if Calliope could work out some sort of homage to them all, across her Signature and Showstopper bakes….

And so she did, and now she was the recipient of high remarks for her tiger lily scones with rose-infused cream from the Signature round and second place in the Technical for her sage and onion focaccia, and the only thing standing between her and a spot in the quarterfinals - _the quarterfinals!_ \- is Mary and Paul’s judgment on her Showstopper.

“Now what is this you’ve made for us?” Paul says with a laugh after she places her three-tiered pie on the table before them.

“They look much prettier than I imagined they would,” says Mary, “but it will be the flavours that count.” Calliope nods.

“I think I’ve done alright there,” she says quietly. Paul begins to cut into the bottom tier - a dark chocolate and basil pie with white pepper crust, sprinkled with candied pansy petals - and Calliope’s hands start to tremble. It’s torturously slow, she’s learned, this process of standing here, watching Paul and Mary eat and comment.

“The balance of flavours is remarkable, Calliope,” Mary says after her first bite.

“I agree with Mary,” Paul says, after his second. “Dark chocolate and basil - those are two strong flavours. This could have gone really poorly for you, but you’ve done quite well.” 

“The pepper crust and candied flowers give it a nice little kick as well,” says Mary. Calliope lets out a short, near-hysterical giggle of mild relief.

“Thank you,” she says.

“Let’s see if you can keep that up, though,” Paul says, and Calliope nods again. The second pie is the one that worried her the most, but she’s stunned by how beautiful it looks when Paul slices into it. The pink peppercorns look gorgeous amidst the white chocolate cream.

“Look at _that_!” Paul exclaims. “That is beautiful.” Calliope smiles and hopes that the basil crust and pansy sugar don’t overpower or detract from the overall taste.

“ _Delicious_ ,” Mary says.

“The crust is _almost_ too herbaceous for me,” Paul says, “but it’s a gorgeous pie and it does taste fantastic. Let’s move onto the last one, shall we?”

“If we must,” Calliope says with an exaggerated shrug. She hears scattered laughter behind her, and throws a self-deprecating look of amusement over her shoulder at Bim and Lorna before turning quickly back to see Paul and Mary taking their first bites of the third and final pie.

“I don’t like ruby chocolate,” Paul says after a few moments.

“Oh,” Calliope says, deciding not to comment on how that seems, to her, to be a personal failing on his part.

“But the way you’ve baked the pansies into this - that minty flavour the pansies give off nicely complements the fruity chocolate,” he says. 

“Oh!” Calliope says again, delighted.

“The basil cream on top is wonderful,” says Mary, scooping another bite of it with a spoon, “and the black pepper crust adds another kick, like the first pie, that comes right there at the end.”

“Your command of flavours and colours is really something to behold,” Paul admits. He narrows his eyes at her. Calliope meets his gaze steadily, warily, and then, after several more long seconds, Paul holds out his hand to her. Calliope gasps.

“Shut up!” she shouts, but rushes forward to shake his hand as the tent behind her fills with applause and delighted cheer from Bim, Rana, Gordon, Lorna, and Michael. An hour later finds her out on the grass in front of a camera again, mobile phone to her ear, hoping Pansy is at the house as planned.

“Hello?” comes Pansy’s voice. Calliope grins.

“I got Star Baker, bitch!” she exclaims, and then immediately casts an apologetic look to the camera. “Oh, I’m so sorry--” she says, but Pansy is loud in her ear, shrieking with delight and pride.

“I knew you would! I _knew_ it!” she squeals.

“ _And_ I got a Hollywood Handshake!” says Calliope. Pansy screams again.

“Oh my god! What did I--no, go away, Blaise, I’m _speaking_ to my _friend_ \--”

“She’s my _wife_ ,” Blaise says in the background, calm and dignified and pointed.

“And she was _my_ friend first,” Calliope hears Draco say. She cackles as an argument breaks out on the other end of the phone.

“Chaos,” she tells the camera happily.

\---

“I just figured most of the others will be doing Christian holidays, you know,” Calliope says, setting down a platter in the middle of the Manor’s dining room table piled high with biscuits shaped like triangles. 

“Not to mention everyone will be expecting you to make koulourakia,” Blaise says as he hungrily eyes one of the biscuits that has a bit of tomato poking out of the middle. 

“Exactly,” Calliope says, sitting down and glancing round the table with anxious expectancy, “but I’m saving the Greek bit for my tsoureki in the Showstopper.”

“Hamantashen?” says Narcissa, surveying the biscuits and looking mildly impressed. “Clever strategy.”

“I haven’t had one of these in years,” Lucius says, picking two from the side of the platter and passing one to Regulus beside him, who examines it with skeptical curiosity.

“Those are both traditional poppy seed ones,” Calliope says, “and then there’s also some with dulce de leche filling, some made with espresso dough that have a chocolate filling, and some filled with tomato and goat cheese.”

“Oooh!” Freddi exclaims, nudging Draco’s elbow with her plate. “Chocolate espresso, please!”

“Absolutely not,” Draco says dryly.

“What on earth do you need espresso _anything_ for?” George asks.

“Here, dear, have a dulce de leche one,” Narcissa says, placing a biscuit on her granddaughter’s plate. Freddi frowns.

“When I’m Minister for Magic,” she declares, “I’ll have all the chocolate espresso hamatta--hamentosh--triangle biscuits I want!”

“But they’re quite good, Freddi,” Regulus says, grabbing another poppy seed one from the plate in front of him. Freddi sighs dramatically and takes a bite of hers.

“Like I said,” she says before shoving the rest of the biscuit into her mouth, “ _all_ the dulce de leche triangle biscuits I want.”

“Double talk,” comes the sardonic tones of Albus Potter at the other end of the table.

“I expect nothing less from a future politician,” Scorpius adds. Blaise looks to see that Albus and Scorpius have somehow managed to secret away at least half of the hamantashen with tomato and goat cheese filling for themselves. He raises his eyebrow at them, and Albus only looks vaguely ashamed.

“I see your favorite uncle’s been teaching you subtlety,” he says.

“ _Someone_ has to,” Draco says, carefully choosing his next biscuit. “He’s certainly not going to learn it from his own father. Potter wouldn’t know subtlety if it hit him in the face.”

“Which it’s very unlikely to do,” says George, who appears to be taking great delight in exaggerating his enjoyment of the espresso chocolate biscuits where Freddi can see him. Blaise turns to look at Albus again.

“Please understand that your Uncle Draco is _hardly_ a subtle creature,” he says wearily. Albus smiles. “Share those hamantashen and I’ll teach you instead.” Albus glances at Scorpius, who doesn’t nod or otherwise move a muscle until Albus pushes his plate toward Blaise, at which point Scorpius moves his own plate closer to Albus.

“Or he could just keep learning from our son,” Calliope says sagely, looking round at everyone enjoying the biscuits. She meets Blaise’s eyes over the platter, its pile of hamantashen significantly shorter now, and grins.

\---

There are only four contestants remaining and only four facts that remain relevant in the Zabini house in Cokeworth. 

One: Calliope didn’t even expect her application, completed while slightly drunk, to be chosen to begin with. Two: She’s only two days away from the semi-final round. Three: The competition has gotten too stressful to stay at her job while involved in it, and so she’s spent the last fortnight on a leave of absence so she can bake all day, every day. Four: She is becoming absolutely, wildly paranoid about magical interference.

“Mum doesn’t want you to make her tea anymore,” she hears Scorpius telling Blaise in the living room as she hangs up her apron and heads for the front door.

“What? Why?”

“Well, until she’s eliminated, at least,” Scorpius says. “She doesn’t want you to put any Felix Felicis in her tea. She says it would ruin the integrity of--” His explanation is cut off with the shutting of the door behind her. A few moments later, her knock next door is answered by George, who’s sweating and red-faced.

“Evening, Calliope!” he says cheerfully, if a little breathlessly. He steps aside to let her in the house. “What brings you here? Another bake for us to try?”

“I just need Draco to make me a cuppa,” Calliope says, looking into the living room and seeing the twins each wielding carved tree branches and them against one another, yelling nonsense and making funny buzzing noises with their mouths. Freddi’s strawberry blonde hair is tied back in some sort of triple bun and Regulus is wearing a black helmet that keeps falling off his small head. Calliope smiles.

“Why Draco?” George asks, his brow furrowed. “And--wait--can’t you--”

“I don’t want anybody drugging me,” she says, looking sharply back at George. Her tone is edging ever so slightly toward hysterical, she knows. “You lot, with all your--your lucky potions and--”

“Is that Calliope?” Draco calls from the direction of the kitchen. Calliope marches past George, following Draco’s voice, and is greeted by the sight of him pointing his wand at a shallow bowl filled with liquid. She watches as the liquid recedes to be replaced by the rise of an instant bread loaf. Draco looks up at her with a weary smile. “Never should’ve taken those kids to see _Star Wars_.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s been a cultural theme throughout the last, like, four decades,” Calliope says. “Can you please make me some tea?” If Draco finds her request odd, he doesn’t say, instead simply nodding and flicking his wand at the kettle behind him.

“So, let me see if I’ve got this right,” George says, stepping in behind her. Calliope turns to lean against the worktop. “You’re worried about being drugged with potion to rig the competition in your favor, so instead of trusting your beloved husband to brew you a pure, non-magical cuppa, you came next door to your neighbor, who you know for a fact has given you potion before without your knowledge?” Calliope sighs.

“It would seem that way,” she says.

“It was only Pepper-Up Potion!” Draco says defensively, taking a mug and teabag down from the cabinet near the stove. “She had a _cold_!”

“And I suppose you can’t make your own at home because the kettle might be--I dunno--compromised?” George asks.

“Exactly,” Calliope says. 

“Right then,” says George. 

“I _know_ it’s--”

“It’s quite alright,” Draco assures her, giving a stern look to George, who raises his hands in surrender and slips back out of the kitchen. A surge of yelling comes from the living room a few moments later, followed by loud giggling, and then a throaty sort of growling howl.

“He’s not a bad Chewbacca,” Calliope says to Draco, who’s faithfully tending to her steeping tea.

“How’s the vegan pavlova coming?” he asks. Calliope makes a disgusted sound.

“I hate chickpeas,” she says, “and the word _aquafaba_.” Draco grimaces.

“Who could blame you?” he says, adding a spoonful of milk to her tea and handing her the mug. She relaxes at her first sip.

“Thanks,” she says gratefully.

“You know Blaise is on your side, don’t you?” Draco says softly, resting his hand on her elbow.

“I know,” she says with a nod.

“He’s never been on anyone’s side the way he’s on yours,” says Draco. “Not even his own, I don’t think, which is _really_ saying something.” She nods again. Draco smiles at her. “Take the mug. I’ll get it back from you later.”

Blaise is there to greet her at the door when she enters their house again, to receive her sheepish smile. She opens her mouth to apologize, but he shakes his head and pulls her into a gentle embrace instead, careful not to jostle the tea too much.

“I’m taking time off starting tomorrow,” he says into her hair. 

“You don’t need to,” she says in a rush, and she means it, really. The kids are in Muggle primary school during the week, after all, and it’s not like she’s burdened with housework with a wizard around, but--

“You can’t do all of this practice alone,” Blaise says, pulling away from her enough to look at her face. “I will be here to make a run for any and all groceries you need, or to stir when you need the loo, or to lay out the ingredients for your next bake while you have a kip, or to make you lunch or remind you to take a break or anything else you need, alright?” Calliope nods and brushes away a tear that has, most annoyingly, escaped her right eye.

“How’s the tea?” Blaise asks.

“Potion-free,” Calliope says, raising one eyebrow, “but a little weaker than I like.”

“He never makes it strong enough,” Blaise says dryly.

\---

“Surely it can’t be much longer,” says Granger, standing on her tiptoes as if the meager added height will afford her a better look inside the tent at the bottom of the hill. Blaise checks his watch.

“Can’t be,” he admits. 

“D’you think she’ll win?” Weasley asks from where he’s lounging on the grass with Hugo near Blaise’s feet.

“She’s certainly good enough to,” Blaise says. “Whether or not the judges recognize that is another matter entirely.” 

“They would if they knew it was my birthday,” says Delphi, pausing in her marathon of cartwheels round them. Blaise nods but says nothing.

“Does she know the Showstopper is a kids’ birthday cake?” Draco says in a low voice. Blaise shakes his head. Draco smiles. “That’ll be a nice surprise.”

“And so we return!” George announces. Blaise turns to see George approaching their group, flanked and followed by his own children, Scorpius, Rose, Albus, and Lily, with Pansy, Luna, and Longbottom not far behind, towing Pepper and Basil with them.

“About time,” Draco says, reaching out to squeeze George’s hand.

“Here’s a thought,” George says, sounding rather exhausted. “There’s too many kids in our family.”

“You’re not wrong,” Scorpius says under his breath. He flops down onto the grass beside Albus and looks up at Blaise, guarding against the sun in his eyes with his arm. “Is Mum still in there, then?”

“Shouldn’t be much longer now,” Blaise says in a tone that he hopes is reassuring.

“She’ll win,” Albus says. He looks at Scorpius. “Don’t you think she’ll win?”

“There’s so many variables,” Scorpius says, biting his lip. Then, uncharacteristically, he grins. “But, Merlin, I hope she wins.”

There’s movement at the bottom of the hill, and then a loud cheer rises slowly over the crowd around them, until it overtakes their group as well at the sight of a smiling Calliope walking toward them, holding a huge cake before her. Delphi gasps and runs to meet her mother, clearly delighted to receive the birthday cake of her sweet seven-year-old dreams. Slowly, their enormous group makes their way to a picnic table, where Weasley makes himself useful by cutting and distributing slices of the cake - a perfect replica of Hogsmeade Village, complete with a Shrieking Shack and surrounding forest - and Blaise finally has a moment to give Calliope the hug that she obviously needs.

“I don’t think I’ve done enough to win,” she says shakily when he pulls away from her a full minute later. “But I think that’s alright.”

“Of course it’s alright,” Blaise assures her, rubbing her back. “We’re all still _so_ proud of you, darling.” Calliope gives him a grin, tears filling her eyes.

“And I’ve made our daughter a _brilliant_ birthday cake,” she says with pride.

“That you have,” says Blaise, smiling. “An unforgettable one. You’ll have to live up to this one every year now.” Calliope laughs, but doesn’t get a chance to reply before another cheer goes up in the crowd: Paul, Mary, Mel, and Sue have made their way from the tent.

“Oh, fuck,” Calliope whispers.

“Thank you all for coming!” shouts Mel.

“Can we please have our three finalists up here?” Sue says.

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” Calliope repeats.

“Let’s give them all a round of applause, shall we?” says Mel, leading the way, as more cheering rises around them again. Calliope exhales loudly. Blaise nudges her forward.

“I love you,” he says. “These results won’t change a bit of that.” She nods and smiles at him again before setting off, clearly terrified, to meet the judges, hosts, and Michael and Rana.

“There can, unfortunately, only be one winner,” Sue says gravely, as silence engulfs the crowd. Blaise’s palms are sweating. On either side of him, suddenly, Scorpius and Delphi take his hand in theirs. He squeezes.

“And the winner is--”

\---

“It’s not fair we won’t get to see any episodes after this one!” James complains loudly. “Can’t they stop airing it until we’re home for Christmas hols?”

“Oh yes, I’m sure they’ll do just that,” Lucy says in a dry monotone. Calliope chokes back a laugh. Percy and Audrey’s youngest daughter is only eleven, anxious to begin her first year at Hogwarts in a few days, and dripping with the sort of sarcasm that is far too advanced for her age. Calliope assumes she comes by it from her Uncle George.

“Finish your pumpkin juice so we can get to the Manor,” Percy tells Lucy. “We don’t want to be late for the viewing party, do we?”

“Not during _Bread Week_!” Albus declares.

“The Three Caballeros, the Three Caballeros,” Scorpius sings quietly, “they say we are birds of a feath--”

“Shhh!” Calliope shushes him.

“Not where people can hear,” Blaise mutters to Scorpius.

“We’re in the Leaky Cauldron,” James says rudely. “Who’s going to even know we’re talking about a Muggle television series in the Leaky Cauldron?”

“Just because--” Albus starts, eager as ever to fight with his brother for the honor of his best friend’s family, but he’s interrupted by a startling gasp and a squeal.

“Oh my god, are you--you are!” says a middle-aged raven-haired woman approaching their table, looking directly at Calliope.

“Er,” says Calliope, straightening her back and glancing warily across the table at Blaise, who’s already got his wand out, ready to spring to her defense if necessary.

“Calliope Zabini! Oh my god,” the woman says, her eyes and smile wide. “It’s you! From _Bake Off_!”

“Ha!” Albus hisses in James’ direction.

“Oh!” says Calliope, fear giving way to relief mingled with confusion. “Yes, that’s me.”

“Do you win? Please tell me you win. Oh, no, don’t tell me!” the lady says, gesticulating dramatically. “I know you can’t tell me, but I really hope you win!”

“Well, thank you,” Calliope says, blushing. She glances around, slightly embarrassed at the attention the scene is causing. It’s only been two weeks but she’s managed to get used to this in Muggle circles. 

She just never expected to be recognized here, in Diagon Alley.

“I knew your surname sounded familiar,” the woman says. “Mel said your husband works in the government and I thought, ‘Ha, I bet it’s _our_ government,’ and here you are!” She looks at Blaise, who by now has lowered his wand only slightly. “I work in Magical Games and Sports. And you?”

“Unspeakable,” he says, clipped. She nods.

“Top secret!” she says gleefully, turning her attention back to Calliope. “Just like those _Bake Off_ results!” Calliope laughs politely. “Well, I’ll let you alone now,” the woman says, edging away. “I’m sure you’ve got a big viewing party to get to. I’ve got my own as well, besides! Me and my husband - he’s a Muggle, too - we never miss an episode, and certainly won’t now that I’ve met you!” She waves as she heads for the door, calling, “Good luck!” over her shoulder as she does.

“Well, that was something,” Calliope says turning to look at Blaise. “I never even thought about it, but--”

“Half-blood kids and Muggleborns are going to know who you are when we start at Hogwarts next year!” Albus says excitedly. He elbows Scorpius. “You’re gonna be famous, too, mate!”

“Among half-bloods and Muggleborns?” says Lucy, finishing off her pumpkin juice. “His grandmother will be so proud.” Calliope throws back her head and laughs.


End file.
